Story of Death
by Cattatra
Summary: The story I am about to tell you is not about monsters. It is not about hero’s, or fiends, or anything you might expect a story to be about. Perhaps, to you, it is not even real. It is, instead, about me.


**Story of Death**

**Disclaimer - I do not own Harry Potter**

**A/N - This rolled out of my fingers one day and I was inclined to finish it. It is a bit rambling, but that's how it should be. Don't worry if you don't like/understand/want to read; I'm not sure about it either lol ;D**

The story I am about to tell you is not about monsters. It is not about hero's, or fiends, or anything you might expect a story to be about. Perhaps, to you, it is not even real. It is, instead, about me.

My name is Harry Potter. I am not a monster, as many think I am, nor am I a hero, as I used to be thought of as. I have destroyed fiends, though this is not about those fiends. It is, instead, about something much different.

It is about how I died.

Most people, when writing the story of my life, do just that. They write how I fought valiantly though reluctantly, or how I had great power, or how I fell in love, or became a vampire, werewolf, Veela, Animagus or Metamorphmagus, how I rode dragons and won Quidditch all my life. How I became the Administrator of Azkaban, Minister of Magic, Headmaster of Hogwarts, beaten, raped, captured, killed. They tell you that quite often, how I fell to Voldemort, or his Death Eater's, my uncle, a potion, a monster of Hagrid's.

But rarely do they tell you of how, in the twilight years of my life, I succumbed, as all do who live to that time, to old age. As my friends did before me, and shall do so after me, as young do as they age as I did.

I do not say they are wrong. Perhaps, in many other 'trouser legs of time' I did end up in these kinds of lives, and perhaps I did die, or turn dark.

I am not here to tell you about those lives. I want to tell you of how I was sitting in a field one day that belonged to no one and everyone, under the clear sky, in which the moon and sun shone, and stars twinkled, and clouds gathered. It does not matter, truly, what or where I was. Just that I was there, and it was on my own, and that you are here with me, listening to my tale.

My hands have done much throughout my life. There is a mark in my right palm from holding my wand so much. Perhaps in your mind my hands are thin and arthritic, or perhaps small and trembling, or perhaps they are just hands, the nails slightly dirtied as all teenagers are, which is the form you all think of me in, much of the time, no matter how old you are told I am.

Perhaps in your mind my hair is grey and long, or 'salt and peppered' and neatly groomed, finally. Perhaps I am bald, or perhaps you see me as the eleven year old boy that first set out to Hogwarts, innocent as a babe to all things adult. If you yourself are adult perhaps you shall know what I mean. If not, or you do not, perhaps someday you will. There comes a day, however, when you realise that even as you watch the world and other people they too are watching you, and are just as worried about being foolish as you are.

It makes life a little less lonely, I think.

But as I say, it matters not what you think of me. I am, after all, about to die.

Nothing is here to kill me. No fall down the stairs, no green curse hitting me in the chest. Just an old body finally giving out.

I fall asleep. It is a restful sleep, I know, for I do not wake with nightmares, or discomfort, or just from a stiff neck. My green eyes close, and none can change my eye colour, no matter what happened in my life. My mother's eyes are shut but my mouth smiles, a small smile that reflects on happy times that I did have once. None can go through their life without some happy times, even if they are marred by bad, not even I. My hand rests on my knee, my head droops to my chest.

There is no moral to this story. There is no quest, there is no strife, there is no meaning.

But there is the tiny hope that, when you write your tales of my life, and read them in the dark of night or the light of day, that, no matter what the story or the darkness or the power, you shall remember the little boy who began all these tales, tiny Harry Potter, and no matter what the time is, in the time of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs, or the time of my descendents, or when I have turned to dark magic.

Remember Harry Potter. A boy. A boy who lived. Remember who started this all.

With a sigh he dies.

There will be no more tales from me today.


End file.
